The Moth

I stepped in yet another puddle on the cobblestones as I trudged through the pounding rain. My walk home felt longer than usual. Not even my umbrella could protect my coat from getting soaked. I passed house after house, each dark and quiet at this time of night. The only light I was given was that of barely lit streetlamps. When I reached the end of the street, a chilly dampness overcame me. My beard was coarse and rough as I dragged my hand along it, exhausted. At this rate, I was bound to get a cold. I had begrudgingly taken another step when a faint light drew my attention.

There was a house across the street with a glow radiating from the window. The house was the same as all the others – a brick house with a crimson red roof. Except there was something different about this house. The atmosphere felt warm and welcoming compared to the other houses, which were dull and aching.

Movement in the window caught my eye. A woman with beautiful red hair, unlike any I had ever seen, was pacing around the small house. Her anxiety only seemed to rise as officers in uniform entered her home. I couldn’t hear what they had said – I didn’t think I wanted to after the woman collapsed to the ground with tears running down her pale face. They handed her another officer’s uniform as she pulled it towards her body and sobbed into it.

I don’t know how long I had been standing there, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the scene – from the woman and her tears. I won’t be able to forget the woman’s face, struck by pain and grief. Water droplets flowed down the window as if feeling the same agony.

Maybe it was the rain, but my face felt wet as I pulled my attention away from the scene and continued on my way.

The next night, I found myself walking down the street yet again on my way home. I thought that maybe this time the woman would be asleep. I was wrong.

The window was brightly lit as if compelling me to follow, as a moth would to a flame.

The woman sat still in a chair. Her red hair was disheveled, and her eyes swollen from old tears. Eyes like sapphires were pinned directly on a point on the wall. She didn’t move or speak.

She appeared void of all happiness as if her light had been snuffed out. I wanted to do something – to say something, but I was just a spectator in someone else’s life.

Another woman entered the room who seemed to know her. Her hair was darker, but their physical similarities were unmistakable. She took a hairbrush and held the woman’s silky red hair in her hands. She brushed through it as the woman continued to sit frozen in the chair.

The woman began to say something to the red-haired woman. I tried to read her lips as she spoke. I only made out the first word that fell from her lips – a name. Clara. The woman’s name was Clara.

“Clara,” I realized I had said that aloud. It felt so natural for me to say it. It rolled off my tongue as if instinct.

Clara seemed to face the other woman finally, and slowly rose from her seat.

I managed to tear my eyes away from the window and continued my walk before I decided to go into the house myself.

Clara, such a delicate name for a broken woman, I thought to myself.

It was a while before I found myself approaching that window again. I couldn’t bring myself to see Clara’s face. To witness her sadness.

But as I walked down the street to reach her house, I heard noise. The closer I approached, the louder it got until I could make out a familiar melody.

By the time I reached the house, there were people gathered around the table. Clara sat in the center with a cake in front of her. The candles were still lit as everyone continued singing.

My attention, however, was not on everyone else but on Clara’s face – her content. It wasn’t complete happiness, but it was growth. Her face looked fuller, and her eyes no longer brimmed with tears.

When the singing stopped, Clara looked at the cake in contemplation. A wish. She gets one wish for her birthday. She closed her eyes, holding her hands together in a silent prayer. A faint smile grew on her face as she blew out the flames.

A matching smile found my face as I continued my walk. I knew what she had wished for, saw it in her face.

I didn’t realize I was in front of the house until I saw the flickering light reflecting from the window.

Candles were lit around the table, and there was Clara. Another man sat on the opposite side, facing her. She was laughing. Her face was flushed, and her smile lit up the room. It was a beautiful sight.

The man looked at her with so much longing, I couldn’t help but wish that it was me. It was a selfish thought. He held her hand gently, and that is when I saw it. The diamond ring that rested upon her finger. It sparkled under the flame of the candle.

I looked at Clara – at the way she spoke to the man. She was happy, I could see it in her eyes. She got her wish.

I didn’t plan to come back to this house. I planned to let Clara be happy. I took one last glance at her, at her smile. I walked away, hoping never to follow the flame again.

The light found me this time. Snow was falling around me as I took in the sight through the window. A brightly lit Christmas tree stood at the center of the room, with a small family gathered around it, decorating.

The sight of Clara had taken me by surprise. Her once long red hair now hung at shoulder length. More color had found her cheeks since the last time I saw her. But her green eyes were still the same as I remembered. A smile spread across her face as she looked at a little girl. The little girl had the same red hair and smile as her mother.

The man lifted the little girl upon his shoulders as she laughed. Clara placed a star in the little girl’s hand that glowed in the darkness. The star was placed on the top of the tree, making it whole as the family was. Clara had a family, and she was happy. I shouldn’t be here watching this moment, but I needed to know if she would truly find happiness again.

I turned to leave, but movement at the window caught my attention. The little girl had approached the glass. Her little hand pressed against it, and her gaze was directed towards me. She smiled at me, the same smile Clara always had. Her little hand waved at me from behind the glass. I brought my own hand up to wave back at the happy little girl staring back at me. Clara seemed to be calling for her because the little girl looked back and pointed through the window – at me.

That’s when bright green eyes met mine from behind the little girl. Clara – my Clara looked at me. Her hand covered her mouth in shock as slow tears started to fall down her cheeks. It wasn’t fear that I saw, but recognition that registered on her face. I smiled at her once, long and deeply, knowing how much sadness she had once faced.

And like a moth, I followed the light to my own happiness.